At the Lowest Moment
by AbstractionDesolation
Summary: An alternate meeting between Sherlock and John in which both are contemplating suicide. I may or may not add to this depending in responses, but if I do, I'll probably end up with slashy JohnLock.
Social media kept him apprised of things; he could keep tabs on school chums, army mates, his "friends." There was his sister as well, with her selfies and drunken duck facing. He kept them all in his periphery, checking in once in a great while to see what everyone was up to. Mostly though he left well enough alone and ignored the whole bailiwick. Today he felt nostalgic and lonely, so he logged in.

Ninety percent rubbish, as per usual, but then something caught his eye. A mutual friend suggestion, which he never normally noticed, leapt from the screen. There he was, in all his glory - the only man that made John bat for the other team. John sighed deeply and clicked the image, pulling up a publicly available profile full of the brilliantly smiling face and dark hair that John had spent so much time memorizing in Afghanistan. There were photos of that time set against the bright sunshine and endless, washed out sand. Michael stood, arm outstretched over the shoulder of someone that had been crudely cropped out. He remembered when that picture was taken. Michael was taller, his tanned and muscled arm resting comfortably across John's shoulders, the two of them against the world. They'd stood in front of the medical tent, sweating and grinning together for the bond they'd shared and the life that had been saved. A wry smile crossed his features. Cropped out again it seemed...

He expected it to be bittersweet, to look at someone he once loved. Instead he felt... Nothing? Or maybe more and somehow less than nothing - an emptiness that reverberated with memories of what he once felt. A deep love that had burned to ash in a wave of loathing. That hate that had gelled under an apathetic rush. The person on the screen had once filled him with more emotion and need and humanity than could ever be expressed, and now ... Now it did nothing but hollow him out, leave him as a shell. A spun sugar veneer that holds the shape of what once was but dissolves into nothing. There is no happiness for Michael - Mike - within him. No disgust, no pity, no yearning. That face had become the human embodiment of the "meh" attitude for John and he was left a candy glass impression of what once was, able to remember but not feel, and wondering if that made him better or worse off for having known Michael.

John was never given to poetic melancholy. He was more the stiff upper lip, keep calm and carry on type. So it wasn't quite odd to realize that he had packed Michael away into the recesses of his dreams and forgotten what they'd shared. His eyes lost focus as he drifted into memories. The time at war had driven the two of them into forced proximity. That had become a heady rush of desire and need and physical comfort, driven by the "we may die tomorrow" attitude cultivated by those that had seen the horrific realities painted by bullets. Mike had been a medic, not as officially well trained as John, but with an ability that far outstripped his rank. John had grown to rely on Michael for so many things - in surgery and out, in combat and in bed. They'd never spoken about their situation, both men taking what they needed and giving what they could. It had been comfortable and John had unwittingly fallen in love with him, making unspoken yet dearly held plans for when the hell they faced was left behind.

When they'd returned home, John with a limp and a tremor in his hand that ruined him for surgery and Michael with a seemingly permanent thousand yard stare, they'd tried to meld into civilian life. But it hadn't worked out. Michael couldn't leave the combat behind, couldn't bring a male relationship home, couldn't stop protesting, "I'm not gay" and "we're not together." Mike became angry and standoffish, pushing John further and further from his life until finally they'd gotten into a huge fight and John had left the pub broken hearted and struggling to make sense of things. He'd returned to the flat they'd let together several hours later to find Mike sweet talking himself into the pants of a blonde waif, while explaining John as "a poor deluded fellow that wasn't quite right and needed to be kept like an untrained puppy." He'd taken his things and left that night, all remaining affection snuffed out and replaced by the glowing embers of resentment and anger.

He clicked out of the website. Michael had eventually lost his power over John. Thoughts of him didn't cause the acute pangs of heartache or shivers of disgust any more and after a while John simply forgot about him. Until tonight. He felt off kilter, not because of what had once been, but because he didn't feel any more. Another tick in the "unfit for this life" column he kept running in his head. Some level of him knew it wasn't normal or healthy to become so completely apathetic. The rest of him thought of the numerous ways he'd come up with to kill himself and whether or not this was the final sign.

The room was mostly empty. A few clothes strewn lifelessly across the floor like the rapture had come and left John behind. A few books, some well worn and memorized, others purchased from second hand shops on the off chance he might bring himself to care enough to read them. His bed was tiny but neatly made, his mobile charged and ready, a single blank sheet of paper on the desk. A tiny, useless, muse-less existence in a single room. He closed his eyes in a slow blink and rose, the laptop clicking shut. The gun was fished from the desk drawer and slipped into one coat pocket, the mobile into the other. He strode from the room without looking back.

The orange glow of the streetlights bled into the soggy night. The world was alive with the hiss of raindrops on asphalt, but devoid of humanity. It was nearly three and London slept around him as he wandered aimlessly. He had the courage, the resolve, to end it now. He had been thinking about it all day and the realization that he'd become an emotionless void had pushed it to the forefront of his mind. A bitter smile painted his features. He'd make it a challenge for them he thought. An ex army doctor miles from home and with no note or reason, found shot in an alley. It would be an odd footnote in a case at least. Briefly he entertained the notion that he'd find someone desperate and goad them into doing it for him. His thoughts burbled together in an unsteady torrent. It'd be too obvious to be a good mystery if he shot himself, and he didn't truly want to make someone a murderer just to give the police a hard time of it. Yet he wished he could at least make some sort of challenge out of himself. A sense of a task accomplished for whomever figured it out to balance the overwhelming lack of pride he himself felt.

He tucked his hands into his pockets, gripped the gun tightly, hunched his shoulders around his ears and kept walking. Cold rivulets trickled down his neck, soaking into his shirt under the coat. He came to a bridge and paused half way across, leaning his palms against the railing and stretching forward, contemplating a jump versus a bullet. Unconsciously he started to swing a leg over the rail, to balance himself between the walk and the edge. The height wasn't great, but still, with the hard landing beneath and the possibility of being run down by a lorry when he landed on the street... He was sitting on the guardrail now, one leg towards freedom and the other anchored in self preservation.

"You're in my spot."

John flinched, overbalancing away from the edge. He set himself back to rights, feet back on the walk, and turned. "What?" The man that had spoken was close, almost near enough to touch. The street lamp glowed across his face, darkness pooling in the hollow of his throat and beneath the sharp jut of his cheekbones. The voice was deep, cultured, but with a hint of a childishness.

"You're. In. My. Spot. Don't be dull... Pick another place to try to learn to fly."

The statement was at such odds with the situation that John chuffed. "Right. Your spot. And you plan on flying yourself, yeah?"

Colorless eyes gazed fixedly at him, irises lost in rain and sodium light. "You've got the gun... You have options. I? Well, I have ... " His voice trailed off as he swung a long leg over the side. With an elegant motion he was completely over, toes dangling into space and body held at a defiant angle, anchored by a backward grip on the metal rail.

John leapt for him, grabbing the collar of his grey coat. "Are you barking mad?" John's pulse pounded as he transferred his desperate clutching to a thin but strong wrist. The man he held leaned further, weight balanced precariously but precisely and John swore it felt like the man was laughing at him.

"Isn't that obvious Doctor? Let go of me."

It was absurd. John had fully intended, just moments ago, to jump off the bridge. And now he was holding on to a complete stranger, trying to keep the lanky bastard from doing the same thing. It nagged at him. Carefully he let go of the man's wrist. It wasn't nearly as graceful, but in another moment he too looked down over the street below from an improbable angle. His shoulder wound protested, and he knew that if he didn't make a choice soon his broken body would fail, making the choice for him. He looked over and up at the strange man.

"How'd you know?" He finally asked.

The lean face that glanced at him registered mild surprise, as if finding another person in the same daft situation was more of a triviality than anything life and death. "It's obvious."

John chuffed again. "Humor me. How'd you know about the gun and why did you call me doctor?" He was rewarded with a piercing look, and he squirmed internally even as his innards roiled at the fact that holy shit he was up high and hanging by a thread with a looney beside him.

"The weight distribution of your coat. Both pockets occupied, the left one with something smaller and more regularly shaped, as you had that arm less tensed, more casual while your hands were in your pockets. The right, well, that's a heavier object, irregular. You've gripped it tightly, protectively. Two things regularly in pockets of a coat - a mobile, and a weapon. The more relaxed side, coupled with the lighter weight says mobile in the left. The military rigidity and measured stride, even while preoccupied says service man, which says revolver in the right pocket. As for the doctor, well, do I have to explain or can I get back to my scheduled activities?"

Completely gobsmacked, all John could say was, "Brilliant. Dead brilliant."

It was the other man's turn to huff, a disused and bitter laugh. "Well, dead at least..." He started to let go with one hand.

"No! Don't!" It was loud and startled even John. He wasn't sure why, but he had to stop this guy. His own life was pointless, he himself a man passing through time with no purpose, but here next to him was someone special. The hand returned to its grip. "That was incredible! You have to tell me how you saw all that. I can't let you die until you explain." John rambled, mind working feverishly in his bid to keep the man from jumping.

"It's all there to see. You just have to pay attention. As I seem to have dissuaded you from your own attempt at suicide, could you at least leave me to mine?" The tone was tired, but a tiny trace of pride crept through when he had mentioned paying attention and John latched on to that thread.

"Teach me then. If it's all there to observe, teach me. Tell me how you got doctor, and how long you watched me to be able to determine my background and the contents of my pockets. It has to be a form of genius..." He left off, suddenly a bit shaky as his shoulder trembled and his bum leg twitched. An eternity later the man answered.

"Genius? It doesn't take a genius, which I assure you I certainly am, to deduce. Though I should think you'd want to climb back over to safety before your war injuries betray you. While I'm not adverse to finding myself at the bottom of a long drop, I don't want to have to get involved with the mess you'd inevitably create for me if you were to let go." His face was quite expressive, flowing from pride in his genius to a wistful longing for death, to utter annoyance at the idea he'd be involved in anything to do with John.

They stood in silence another moment, listening to the rain, John with his pulse in his ears and increasing pain in his limbs. Finally John spoke again. "An inconvenience to you then, yeah? If I were to die and get in the way of your own grand gesture? I was here first you know... I could let go..." He was half bluffing, half seriously contemplating whether or not his death would make the stranger reconsider. He relaxed his grip with one hand, wondering if he imagined the infinitesimal flinch in the other man's face.

"I won't jump if you do. Not tonight anyway. But I would still kill myself eventually so your gesture would ultimately be in vain."

Mouth opening and shutting wordlessly, John stared. "Bloody mind reader now?"

The answer came on a scoff. "It doesn't take supernatural powers to follow the natural progression of a lesser mind. It's only inevitable that you would place your wellbeing after that of another, what with your being a doctor. You want to save everyone and you don't care how much of yourself you have to give or lose to make it so. You picked up on the fact that I would be put out to have to get involved in your death - well done, I hadn't expected you to be perceptive - and tried to gain leverage against me. Of course that assumes that I wouldn't just let go myself and have done with the whole mess, leaving a quite interesting conundrum for the local police force."

"Sherlock what the fuck do you think you're doing?" A new voice cut through the night and John was suddenly lifted backwards off his feet and pulled to the flat of his back on the wet ground. Next to him the stranger was a tangle of long flailing limbs as he too was yanked unceremoniously from his perch. John sat up, blinking in the headlights of a police vehicle.

"Seriously, Sherlock! What are you doing? And who is that you've dragged into your insanity?" A lean man, not as tall as the stranger, and much more grey at the temples was berating the stranger - Sherlock it seemed.

"Bugger off Lestrade, Donovan." Sherlock righted himself and glared disdainfully down at them. Lestrade, the man that had tackled Sherlock stood defiantly, a muscle in his jaw clenched tightly. Donovan, the woman that had yanked John from his perch, spoke with a growl as she rose, John unwittingly dragged up with her.

"Oh, bugger yourself Freak. What'd you go and do this for? Attention?" She yanked John's arm. "And getting him involved? What the bloody hell? Were you trying to talk him over the edge? Drive him crazy with your deductions until he went splat? Lord knows I'd jump if I had to listen to you..." She was venomous, in one breath belittling Sherlock, making John a puppet, and discrediting anything John may have said, been, or done. He was pissed off by it.

"Yeah, well, excuse me, but could we take a time out here? I've just been dropped on my ass backwards into a land of confusion and I'd like very much to know just what is going on." John's voice was strong, commanding, and ignored. While he appreciated the fact that neither were about to die anymore, he resented the hell out of these two that swooped in and assumed they knew everything. Sherlock obviously held no warmth for the pair either.

Sherlock looked at him appraisingly before resuming his haughty stare. "Yes, Lestrade, do explain. Why are you about at this hour when your ... Companion ..." Here his eyes trailed up and down Donovan with utter contempt. "Was obviously not ready to leave your place."

"You smug bastard." She lunged forward, running into the arm John suddenly flung out and stopping dead. "Bastard!" She muttered again.

"Sal-ly..." Lestrade made two long, warning syllables out of her name and she backed down.

"If you must know, detective..." The word "detective" sizzled like acid as he spoke it. "The good doctor was trying to talk me back from the edge. Doing well before you lot showed up. If I had to put up with your inept bungling I'd be bleeding out on the pavement even now."

"Then get on with it Freak." She breathed it, barely audible through the still falling rain. John elbowed her surreptitiously and smiled slightly at her "oof" of pain and the approval in Sherlock's eyes.

"Are we done here? I'm sure you have to report to brother mine that you've brought me back safely, and Donovan will want to retrieve her cuffs - and knickers - from your floor."

The older man scrubbed his face with one hand before pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes tightly shut. "Go. Just... Just go. Home Sherlock, not back over the ledge. I'm not filing this and you're not teasing Sally any more."

"Like hell." John saw the words being spoken more than he heard Sherlock say them. Donovan had already strode away, tucking herself into the driver's seat of the idling car. Sherlock turned on his heel and took a few steps before glancing back at John. "Coming?"

John froze, looking between the detective and the bizarrely interesting man for a hint.

The detective held out a hand. "DI Lestrade. Greg. That was Sally Donovan." He nodded toward the visibly agitated woman. "You'll make sure he gets home right? He doesn't do this often any more, thank god, but he needs his keeper more than he thinks."

"Keeper? Does what? Home?" He couldn't articulate the thoughts.

"Just stay with him and the two of you stay off of high places ok?" He followed Sally and climbed into the car.

John started off, bewildered, after the self proclaimed genius.

"Whatever he said to you, it's rubbish." They walked, John trotting beside his long limbed companion.

"He introduced himself and told me to take you home."

"And that I need a minder."

"Right, well, that too."

"Rubbish. I don't need a 'minder.' I need a distraction."

"Distraction. From dumping yourself into the street?" It was disconcerting to think of that lanky body, the brilliant mind, and those ridiculous cheekbones still and dead.

"From the boredom! What else?" The words were angry, the strides lengthening. John hurried after. He was unable to speak, the effort of keeping up taking his focus, so he settled for throwing occasional sidelong glances at his erstwhile companion. Sherlock didn't speak, didn't slow, until suddenly John jostled right into his back where he stood. It was a surprise and he nearly tripped, but the tall man didn't acknowledge it. Then, quick as that, he was up some steps and unlocking an unfamiliar door. "Coming in?" The slight questioning lilt was accompanied by an arched eyebrow.

John nodded, aware of how ruddy he must look after jogging Christ how knew far after a mad genius. Sherlock stepped inside and started up the stairs, leaving him to close the door and once again trail after like an obedient puppy. When he arrived at the top and stepped inside the flat he saw the man had sprawled across the length of the couch, limbs akimbo and still soaking wet. "You'll want to dry a bit, yeah? Before you catch ill." The statement elicited a small huff.

"Being ill is dull and I haven't the time or constitution for it. My body is a transport for my mind, and it can bloody stay wet until I'm through thinking." The statement was flat, almost rehearsed, as if it had been said too many times for an audience that never listened.

Aware that he was gaping, not to mention dripping all over the carpet, he shuffled toward the kitchen area. "Mind if I make some tea then?" He cocked his head towards the other room but he got no answer. Sherlock was staring straight ahead, palms flat together and index fingers lined up to his lips. He didn't blink, didn't twitch, and John started even harder until he saw the telltale shift of breath beneath the coat he still wore.

"Right." He turned and started opening cupboards, looking for tea. Two were empty, the third yielded a dusty teapot, and the fourth - flailing awkwardly, he yipped in surprise as he discovered a whole host of "Spiders? Why in God's name are there spiders in here?!" Sherlock never moved, and John turned back to look at the horrid things, hoping they hadn't decided to make their creepy way towards him. They hadn't and after a few seconds he realized they were dead. Dead and catalogued it seemed. He shuddered, revulsion shivering from his toes through his spine. "Right. Spiders. Anything else completely barmy I should know about? Besides you I should say?" He spoke aloud, figuring if a girly squeal and a large dramatic jump backwards hadn't gained attention, his talking to himself sure wouldn't.

He eventually found the tea, an unopened box of bags, in a drawer. He had been losing hope, beginning to wonder if his new "friend" wasn't a traitor to Brits everywhere and would drink coffee in times of need. But there it was, so he filled the kettle, turned on the stove and waited, noting as he stood the disarray and chaos around him. He reached out idly, turning an ash tray beneath a fingertip. How could he live like this? John didn't see any signs of food, or even dishes. There was however debris of all sorts, from leaves and an astonishing array of what looked like every brand of fag in the country, to sealed and official looking bags of what appeared to be police evidence.

Without meaning to, really, John started flicking through the items. Many were small, simple things - a key, a ring with a chipped pearl adorning it, a pink and bejeweled mobile - but some were indecipherable. What looked like a riding crop stained with blood, a piece of paper with the word "HOUND" scrawled across it, and "good, lord, is that... A toe?" He was part disgusted, part amused, and highly intrigued. All the while, Sherlock didn't snap out of whatever the hell it was he was doing. He sighed deeply, wondering just how much he felt was necessary in minding the detective's admonishment. The kettle whistled and he poured himself some long needed tea after locating and then washing the - seemingly only - cup in the flat. Carrying the steaming liquid carefully, he slipped out of his wet shoes and padded through the place, looking for a towel.

—•—

He was dozing in a chair when something stirred him. He opened his eyes, stretching the kinks from his neck, and yipped again as he turned and saw Sherlock hovering next to him like an emaciated bat.

"I said, John, why are you still here?"

His sleepy brain was taking its sweet time to make connections so he just looked blankly until he caught up. "You know my name." He felt like he should be surprised, but at the same time, everything else about Sherlock was fantastical, why wouldn't he know.

A sly smile crept across Sherlock's features and he reached into his back pocket. A moment later he handed John his wallet and mobile. Glancing at his own jacket that he'd discarded before claiming the chair, John shook his head. "Uh-uh. The mobile, fine, you nicked that. But my wallet? When did you retrieve that?" Another sly look and it dawned on him. "When I jostled you as you stopped... Genius, mind reader, bonkers and a pick pocket?"

"I told you. I'm not a mind reader." It was the only denial.

"But 'bonkers,' and 'a pick pocket' you'll admit?"

"I've been called worse." It was a low voice, flippant, yet tinged with a different inflection John couldn't pick up on.

John remembered the woman from earlier, how she'd called Sherlock "Freak," like it was his name and he grimaced. Putting it aside he spoke again, "Well, you didn't have that at the start, and you figured I was military and medical. You figured on the gun, my motives... Is there anything else I should know about myself before I start asking questions?"

Ten minutes later he was staring wide eyed at Sherlock and absolutely fascinated. The man finished his dissertation with, "and that's why I bet you won't actually go through with it now. You wanted - needed - the danger to feel alive again. You're addicted to it since the war, haven't felt quite right in the normal, safe, life."

"Extraordinary. Quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"Piss off" He seemed pleased with himself.

Trying not to show his amusement, John looked out the window and was shocked. Grey light filtered through the hazy curtain. "It's dawn!" He swore he heard Sherlock mumble what may have been "duh" or "dull," but he had already risen and was sliding into his shoes and slipping his arms into the sleeves.

"You'll be fine, yeah? No more flying attempts? Lester whatshisname will probably have me on charges of you're up a bridge again too soon."

"Lestrade. And no, I have plans for the day that do not include flight," a perplexed and intrigued look crossed the angular face, "but I cannot promise for later this week. It depends on how my tests go." He was matter of fact.

John sighed. "Well, just, stay out of trouble for long enough that you'll keep me out of it alright?" At the solemn nod, John dashed out the door and down the street. He was several blocks away and hopelessly turned around before realized that he'd no idea where he was. He'd spent the night with a madman, one he'd never even been officially introduced to, by the way. The madman had all but assured him that his suicide was inevitable in one breath, while dazzling John's "slow intellect" in another. He was cold, sore in his shoulder and neck, his back felt bruised from his unexpected trip to the ground beneath a pissed off cop, and he was utterly bewildered.

In that instant he realized. He felt alive. Really alive. For the first time in an indeterminate time. He chuckled, smile on his face as he shook his head to himself in amusement. "Bloody Sherlock! Daft git." He walked along, slowly, enjoying the chill morning air until he reached a busier crossing. Raising a hand, he flagged a cab, gave directions, and went back to his single, lonely, sane room.

—•—

Days, weeks, later, John pulled his vibrating mobile from his pocket and read a text from an unfamiliar number.

"221B BAKER STREET COME AT ONCE IF CONVENIENT IF NOT CONVENIENT COME ANYWAY COULD BE DANGEROUS - SH"

Smiling broadly John dashed out the door, arm already outstretched for a cab.

—

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